


The One Where Dean Doesn't Want Any Pie

by stone_in_focus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chubby Dean, Comfort/Angst, Established Relationship, Food Issues, M/M, One Shot, POV Dean Winchester, POV Third Person, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7217185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's gained a little weight and is too embarrassed to talk to Cas about it. That doesn't stop Cas from loving him all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Dean Doesn't Want Any Pie

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous prompt. Find me on Tumblr here: <http://1940sdeancas.tumblr.com/>
> 
> (Don't ask me about the title; it's after midnight.)

Briefly, Dean considers if male PMS is, indeed, a legit phenomenon.

He grunts and squirms as he tries to stuff himself into his favorite pair of jeans—a pair he's been able to slip into for years without any trouble, he might add—and _dear sweet Jesus,_ he feels more bloated than a beached whale. Must be all that goddamn— _ugh—_ water retention— _sonuva—_ from pouring on the salt a little too thick— _oh, c'mon, already!_

Dean gives up in a huff, nearly putting a fist through the mirror, which he's pretty sure Cas scored from a carnival fire sale. 'Cause these days, Dean's starting to look less and less like… _Dean…_ and more like a fucking caricature or a funhouse reject. Eyes are gettin' droopy underneath, the once charming pair of crow's feet replaced by what could be a road map for Death Valley. Better yet, there's hair sprouting out of places he didn't even know he had.

And now, he's got these dumb love handles to deal with—which clearly need a little _less_ lovin'. Okay, so Dean's always been a bit soft in that area. He knows he eats like shit, but he's always had his metabolism gunning for him. 'Cept apparently, today's the day that metabolism decided to retire, and he's gotta start thinking about alternative solutions.

Wonder if greasing himself up with butter will help him squeeze into these babies.

 _Mmm,_ butter.

"All right, tubby," he says, latching onto his jeans again. "Focus." Dean _Winchester_ doesn't retire, even if his metabolism's crapped out on him, and come hell or high water, he's making these pants his bitch.

Finally, after wriggling and flopping around on the bed for five minutes, he manages to wrangle the button into the notch, and if he accidentally knocks over the floor lamp while doing a fist pump and a cheer, well, Cas is too busy taking his sweet-ass time in the shower to notice. That visual potpourri nightmare of a lampshade's been haunting Dean ever since Cas bought it at a garage sale, anyway.

(Dean's really gotta lay down some ground rules for Cas' shopping sprees. Like, not having them. Ever.)

Triumphant, he returns to the mirror, sucking in his gut; however, he frowns when he sees the ever persistent muffin top. He knows the flannel'll cover it up, but it doesn't stop him from feeling like the literal Blob, starring in his own freak show of a life. And if that wasn't enough, he remembers Cas chirping that annoying factoid at him—and right after the numbnuts had accidentally locked the two of them out of their motel room—about how it takes more muscles to frown.

So he frowns harder.

See, he's burning calories already.

Sighing, he pats his stomach. "Guess it's time to lay off the bacon doubles, buddy."

*****

One eventual morning, Dean finds himself rummaging through the junk drawer for rubber bands. A few minutes later, Cas finds him, too.

Unfortunately, Dean doesn't realize this until _after_ he bangs his head on the kitchen cabinet.

"What are you looking for?"

"Jesus _Christ!_ " Dean rubs at the back of his head, gritting his teeth. Fuck, that's gonna leave one hell of a goose egg. "Cas, seriously, how long have we known each other?"

"Long enough to know that I shouldn't sneak up on you," he says flatly, but Dean swears there's a quirk at the corner of his lips. Bastard gets a kick out of it. That time he earned himself a bloody nose while attempting surprise shower sex should've clued him in, but then again, dude always did like to live dangerously.

"You know where any rubber bands are? Thought we bought a whole new pack just the other day."

"We did, but you wanted them for the express purpose of trying to shoot Sam's eye out that same afternoon. There are probably a few still scattered on the floor in the war room." Cas squints. "Why? Are you intending to engage him in a rematch?"

"Uh…yes?" Cas' eyes narrow even further. "No? No, I'm—fuck, just forget it, all right?"

Dean doesn't wait for Cas' reluctant agreement or his proposal of coffee, instead blowing past the cold case files on the table in the war room and— _aha!—_ swiping up a pink rubber band looped around the crystal mouth of a vintage scotch. And yeah, it's more than a little mortifying that he even has to do this, jury rigging his jeans so he can fit into them, but he's actually kind of proud of himself for thinking of it. (All right, so maybe he found it in some "life hack" post on the internet—okay, it might've been more like a pregnancy website—shut up.) Besides, he'll work it off soon enough. No big. Just gotta put in more hours at the gym, maybe ease up on the beer.

Yeah. _Beer._ Serious, right? And Dean is nothing if not committed when he puts his mind to something.

Course, then he remembers the six pack of a new craft beer still sittin' frosty in the fridge.

Eh. He'll start tomorrow.

*****

It gets more serious when a so-called "lead" for a hunting job lands them at a strip mall.

Dean might be getting a little more lethargic in his old age, but he's not an idiot. Fact, he should've known something was up the moment Cas insisted on driving. _"Need to fill up on washer fluid,"_ his ass. Probably doesn't even know where the friggin' washer fluid goes. And if Cas thinks he needs to lie in order to check out some furry little rodent at the pet store, fine. Whatever. Just as long as those squeaky rats don't find their way back to the bunker.

Till Dean discovers it's not actually about guinea pigs, and suddenly, he feels like he's four years old shopping with his mom for underwear again.

He pretty much acts like a four-year-old, too, and proceeds to lock himself in the hooptie for the next ten minutes while Cas pleads and whips his arms around like he's directing air traffic—yeah, _that's_ real convincing.

But as petulant as Dean might be, the sun's even more goddamn stubborn, and Dean's not about to let himself fry in ninety-degree weather while inside a car—especially a crappy one with the A/C busted—so. Clothes shopping it is.

At the very least, Dean can make Cas as miserable as he is by bitching about it the entire time.

"Why the hell are we even here? Is this some kinda _What Not to Wear_ prank?"

"You always seem so uncomfortable in your jeans. I thought you might appreciate buying a new pair that fits."

"They're…" Dean throws a hand up, pausing mid-air and pursing his lips. "Serviceable."

"If you're using rubber bands, I think they've gone out of service."

"My fed slacks're perfectly fine."

Cas tilts his head and stares at Dean like he's a dumbass. "Because I've been altering the waistband to make it bigger."

The bitching immediately stops.

It's easy for someone like Cas. Dude looks good in everything. Guy's fucking ripped, nothing but lean meat on that tight runner's body, and Dean's just…

Dean's just _ugh._

No amount of poking at his gut's gonna make it go away, and when he twists around to glance at himself in the mirror, he hardly believes the words comin' out his own damn mouth. "Jesus, is my ass really that huge?"

Cas fidgets, eyes on the gummed-up carpet. "I'm told there's no sufficient answer for this."

White on his knuckles and red on his ears, Dean storms out towards the parking lot. It's only in hindsight that he realizes he should've taken off the new pair of jeans _before_ setting off the metal detectors.

His apparent crime? Being a total fatass.

*****

Back at the bunker, Dean nearly bowls Sam over while beelining it to the bedroom, and Dean, genius that he is, blurts the first thing that comes to mind: "I've got male PMS, okay?"

Sam, much to Dean's resentment, accepts the explanation with little more than a shrug.

*****

Dean doesn't speak to Cas for most of the week, but it's actually been—shit, has it been over a month since they last had a good roll in the hay? Not like it matters. Dean's found ways to make up excuses, busying himself with surfing for potential cases or tuning up his baby, and using the ol' headache line whenever Cas tries to move in on him. Maybe he should feel flattered that Cas is making the offer, but he knows Cas can tell something's up—even if the guy's smart enough to keep his trap shut till Dean's ready to fess up—and that just don't sit right with Dean. Last thing he needs is to be some pity fuck.

When he's off the clock, Dean all but lives in the bunker's gym, pumping iron and whaling on the punching bag, and while he's definitely beefing up his guns, it ain't doin' much for the beer belly. He doesn't get it, neither; he's cut out the fatty foods and reduced his liquor intake as much as he can without his body full-on mutinying on him. Which, on their dollar, pretty much just leaves coffee and the occasional cup of convenience-store ramen. And okay, so maybe Dean sneaks in a donut every once in a while. He's only _human_ , for chrissakes.

God. He doesn't remember being this fucking hungry since he and Sam were kids, fishing the edibles out of trash cans when Dad went AWOL.

Dean considers calling it a day when he senses his gut acting up, but he pauses before heading to the kitchen, catching himself in the mirror. He paws at his face, flattening the bit of pooch under his chin with the back of his palm. If he's actually gonna try and pull a Ryan Reynolds, he's got a helluva long way to go.

Dean turns around and puts on another set of plates, blasting Robert Plant's voice loud enough that he can't hear the growling in his stomach anymore.

*****

By the end of the week, Dean's motivation dissolves into wallowing in reruns of _Dr. Sexy._

And maybe that's not exactly the show he wants to be watching while he's working his way towards being permanently lodged into the couch, the elastic on his sweatpants stretched to its limit, but since sex's outta the question, his only other option is to live vicariously through a certain leather-boot-donning M.D. Hey, one of them's gotta be catching some tail.

At least Cas is out for the night running some errands so he doesn't have to see Dean marinating in all his sweaty, flabby grossness. Honestly, Dean wouldn't even be surprised if Cas just…never came back. Now that Dean doesn't even have his looks going for him anymore, what reason does the guy got to put up with Dean Winchester, resident pain in the ass? Even when they do talk, lately, it always seems to end in a fight, and Dean…well, sometimes Dean wonders why Cas doesn't just get the inevitable over with and fly on home.

But Cas keeps coming back.

And this time, he's got pie.

"I thought you could use some cheering up." He opens the box, and…oh, hell. It had to be pecan. "Your favorite."

Dean powers through the hunger pangs, focusing on a very passionate quickie in the supply closet so Cas can't see him wincing. "No, thanks."

"But…your favorite," Cas repeats.

"But no thanks," Dean says, jaw clenching.

"You should at least try a bite. It's from the bakery, not one of those store-bought—"

Dean smacks his hand away. "I said I don't want the damn pie, Cas!"

He jumps up from the couch, because right now, all that matters is creating distance and bricking up the space between them. Dean _hates_ it…hates not feeling comfortable in his own skin, and a wall's the only thing that's going to keep all his crazy locked in where it belongs.

Of course, Cas has to go and be the bastard to tear it down.

"Dean," he says, voice quiet and even, and Dean curls a little more into himself. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Sorry, Cas," he spits out, not even trying to disguise the bitterness, "but someone like you really couldn't understand."

"Someone like me?"

Dean balls his hands into fists. He's already said too much; his legs are itchin' for the door, but there's a part of him screaming at himself to stand his ground and be a goddamn adult for once.

"I'm worried about you. Is it something I said?"

"God, Cas…no. That ain't it at all."

"But I feel like you've been falling further and further away from me. You won't talk to me; you're hardly eating anything…all you do is hole up in the exercise room and…" An epiphany crosses over Cas' face. "Are you concerned about your recent weight gain?" Way to break it to a guy gentle. "Is that what this is about? Is that why your sex drive has been abnormally low?"

"No! Maybe…a little." Dean paces back and forth, palming a hand over his mouth. "You're an angel, Cas! You…you're gonna look like freakin' Adonis for literally all of eternity, and I'm…"

He gestures helplessly at himself, and Cas…Cas looks like he might actually be in physical pain.

" _Dean,_ " he barely edges out, like all the air's been sucked out of him. "You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?"

Dean, ever so eloquently, responds with a scoff.

"Close your eyes. I want to show you something."

Oh, crud. Dean's really not in the mood for one of those "it's the inside that counts" pep talks, but despite the whine he lets out, he does as he's told. Cas shuffles up to him, and Dean feels the hands cupping his chin, embracing him and pulling him into Cas' orbit. What starts as a tiny spark turns into a smoldering ember of calming blues, the deepest reds, and the brightest yellows, coiling up in the pit of Dean's stomach until it bursts into an entire kaleidoscope of colors—colors that no word in any language on earth could ever describe. It's like Cas is showing him the inside of the universe, glittering with the stars that always seemed so terribly far out of reach but now right within Dean's grasp, and all at once, everything transcends comprehension…and yet, everything simply _is._ Somehow, he _knows_ he's safe here, knows that…whatever _this_ is…wants nothing more than to bring him home. There's a warmth that consumes him but never burns, a peace that eases the mind but never relents, and he feels it now—that unspoken longing buried underneath layers of salt and grit, bone and marrow, desperately seeking release…

And Dean…

Dean nearly _weeps._

"What…" He clutches his chest, blinking away the wetness in his eyes. "What the hell _was_ that?"

"You." Cas smiles, thumbing over Dean's stubbled cheek. "Your soul."

"Is that…do you always see me like that?"

He nods, his nose bumping up against Dean's as he leans in for a kiss, breath lingering on each other's lips. "And every time we make love, I can _feel_ it." His hands gravitate south, palming around Dean's waist and slipping his fingers under the elastic of his sweatpants. "The fact that I can touch you, in the flesh…every hollow, every curve…that just makes it all the more real. I love you, Dean. And that means _every_ part of you."

And Cas is just that much of a sap that he actually means it.

Dean coughs. Not 'cause he's choked up. Just got a tickle in his throat. "You're not gonna start singing that stupid John Legend song, are you?"

"Mmm…I believe our priorities lie with a pie that needs eating."

For the rest of the evening and well into the twilight hours, they can't keep their hands off of each other. Or the pie.


End file.
